Three Days a Week
by MidnightRun42
Summary: In which Sakakura gets on with the rest of his life.
1. Three Days a Week

_"I don't even remember the season. I just remember walking between them and feeling for the first time that I belonged somewhere."_  
― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

 **-ooo-**

Sakakura is scowling when he opens the door, "You know I'm not some kind of invalid. You don't need to come all the way over here to pick me up every time. I could just take the damn train, the walk isn't all that far and I'm sure you've got more important things you could be doing."

He says the same thing every week and every week he gets the same placid expression, the same raised eyebrow and the same pleasant, even-toned reply from Munakata. "I'm still on leave after what happened. Exactly what do you think I could be doing that would be more important than being here?"

And it pulls the same reaction from him that it always does. No matter how many damn times he hears him say it, it still makes his stupid heart trip into a faster rhythm, still makes his face so warm with the stain of embarrassment that he has to turn away to hide his reaction in a scrambled search for his keys so he could lock up.

He never has to put his shoes on.

He always makes a point of doing that before Munakata arrives even if it sometimes means he's standing awkwardly in his own damn entryway for the better part of half an hour.

Waiting a bit is still better than the alternative.

Far better than having him standing there, watching, as he spends twenty minutes laboring over laces because he's too goddamn stubborn to just admit that he's never going to be able to manage these boots easily ever again and buy something else.

Watching or, worse, offering to _help_ him, kneeling down beside him to tie his laces for him like he's some sort of enormous fucking toddler with his first pair of big boy shoes.

He's not sure either his heart or his pride could take such an offer.

This was bad enough. Having Munakata go out of his way for him like this was _more_ than bad enough. He kept telling himself that this time, this time, he'd tell him he doesn't need to do this shit anymore. Tell him and make him understand that he doesn't need to go out of his way for him. That he isn't worth that kind of effort and he doesn't want it anyway.

Only he _does_ want it.

He wants it so badly he can _taste_ it like bile in the back of his throat, because this is the only time he gets to see him. The only time they share the same space, the only time he gets to be beside him anymore and even if he can barely stand how pathetic it is that he should be so desperate for so little, it's still… _something_.

It's still _something_ when there could be _nothing_ and so he'll take his scraps and he'll fucking like it and he'll endure the mortification of Munakata watching him struggle with stupid, little things because it's better than the alternative.

It's just forty minutes. Forty minutes three times a week, but it's like every hour in between is sketched in black and white. Like the only time his life has any color, any meaning at all is during that stilted car ride and these brief, tired exchanges on either end.

He _misses_ him, god, he fucking _misses_ him.

He misses _them_.

He misses his _life_ even if so much of the last couple years of it was seeped in guilt and built on lies.

He misses little stupid shit like Munakata calling at three in the morning for a status report because he got caught up in paperwork and hadn't realized that it had gotten so late. Like Yukizome teasing him about their imagined competition for Munakata's affections, like he'd ever stood anything like a chance in that department. He missed the feel of Munakata's back falling against his own in battle, a brief pressure that always made him feel like he could take on the entire world and still have energy left to greet him with a smile after.

He misses him even when he's standing right in front of him waiting patiently for him while he fumbles his wallet into his pocket and finally finds his keys under a pile of unread mail.

He misses him because they don't talk anymore; they don't… _anything_ anymore, not really. Every conversation feels rehearsed, like they're both just playing the roles set out for them, reading from scripts that have become so familiar by now that he could probably recite both sides of the conversation in his sleep.

And it's so awkward.

It's so fucking awkward and he's petrified that if he calls it out for what it is, if he's the one to break with these carefully constructed boundaries, to try to cross the gulf between them, he'll lose him completely.

The thought wakes him up in a panic sweat in the middle of the night, the empty space where his hand once was aching as the first sobs shiver their way out of his chest.

He hates this.

He hates every awkward minute of it, but it's still _something_.

It's something when there could be nothing and he's so grateful for it that he feels like he's drowning because he doesn't know how to escape from this. Doesn't know how to get to dry land and so he just keeps treading water hoping Munakata will… what?

He's not even sure what he hopes for anymore and that's so pathetic that sometimes he wishes he had just died in that room, confident in the idea that he'd done this one good thing.

This one last good thing and that Munakata would live and that was all that mattered. That was all that had _ever_ mattered to him.

That he hadn't woken up with his head in Munakata's lap, his face damp with tears that didn't belong to him looking up into that beautiful face and it had seemed so much like a dream that the words had been out of his mouth before he'd had a second to consider the throb of agony in his chest, in his head, in his arm.

"I love you."

And then Munakata had been staring down at him, his one remaining eye widening in surprise for just a moment before a trembling hand had smoothed along his cheek, brushed damp, clinging hair from his face, "You should rest. Help will be here soon."

And that touch had felt like benediction and he'd wanted to apologize for just blurting that out like that, for feeling that way, for burdening him with those feelings, for all the lies, for _everything_ , but he'd been so _tired_. So damn tired and for a long time after that there'd been nothing at all.

Nothing.

Then he'd woken up to the steady beat of monitors in a private hospital room with Munakata asleep in a chair, folders and paperwork scattered all over his lap and the damn floor because he'd been working too damn much again and it was so like him, so damn normal, that he hadn't been able to stifle a chuckle.

Or the tears that came with it.

He'd shoved his remaining hand against his chest and laughed himself sick and everything had hurt and Munakata had slept right through the whole thing without so much as a twitch.

He'd always been a heavy sleeper, always ground himself down so far into exhaustion that they used to joke that it was like trying to wake the dead getting him up to go to bed. How many nights had he hauled him up and carried him back to his room while Yukizome giggled beside them?

He'd liked it.

He'd always liked it.

Her cheerful company never let him feel weird or nervous about it. How could he be doing anything wrong if she was the one suggesting he carry him? If she was the one who encouraged him to haul him up, to be quiet so he didn't wake him even though they both knew how impossible the idea of waking him was.

It was the one time he could bear to be that close to him outside of a fight, to feel the warmth of Munakata's weight against him, and even if she had gleefully poked fun at him for the redness in his cheeks it had still been something… precious.

Something he could look back at fondly even now when every memory of those days was tainted by the memory of the despair that had come after.

The way his sharp features had softened in sleep, the way he sometimes murmured nonsense about them, about schoolwork, about his family's stupid cat, Maki, the words muffled against his back as he draped his limp body over his shoulder like a sack of floor and carried him across campus to his room.

They'd changed so much in the years between, but that one thing hadn't changed at all.

He'd eventually fallen back asleep, exhausted and sore from laughing, from crying, from _everything_ , but for the first time in his life the last thing he'd seen before sleep claimed him was Munakata's peaceful, sleeping face and that… that had been a miracle he hadn't ever even dared to dream about.

Things had been harder after that. It had been harder to face him, to admit to all the things he had done and all the things that he hadn't, but they'd never talked about his confession. When he'd told him about Enoshima, about lying about her, Munakata hadn't asked why and he hadn't volunteered it. He'd… meant to, but… the words just hadn't come out right.

They never did.

So, he'd just kind of assumed Munakata understood the why because that was easier, simpler, than saying it again, than explaining it. He was so grateful that he was still there, that he hadn't turned away from him completely as he probably deserved, that he hadn't wanted to press his luck.

Least that's what he told himself and, sometimes, he even managed to believe it.

And now things were just… awkward.

Awkward, because he has no damn idea how to move past everything that'd happened between them, that insurmountable mountain of distrust and lies that he'd forged over the years and all the harm it's done.

It shouldn't be this hard, maybe, but it was.

No. It should _absolutely_ be this damn hard.

He was in love with his best friend and he'd been so afraid of losing him he'd helped that bitch destroy the world even if he hadn't ever thought that would be the consequence.

Whether he'd meant it to happen or not, that was the truth of it.

So, maybe, it was just as hard as it needed to be. Maybe this was just the kind of thing you couldn't move past, no matter how much you wanted to.

"Fine. Let's get going then," he grumbled, shaking off the gloom of his thoughts as he stepped out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him.

He'd gotten used to locking it one-handed so that at least wasn't a big deal anymore.

The drive was silent, but that in and of itself wouldn't have actually been unusual even before. They'd never really felt the need to say much when it was just the two of them, but the silence that had lingered between them then had always been welcome, comfortable and warm.

This new silence wasn't any of those things.

Munakata didn't like to talk much when he was driving – said it distracted him from the task at hand – and he'd just never been great at small talk, at filling a silence with just enough words to make it seem easy.

When she'd been with them, which had been often, Yukizome had typically been tucked into the backseat, the middle seatbelt wrapped snugly around her waist as she leaned forward between them and chattered on and on about her day.

Some people probably would have found it annoying, but he never had.

He'd always admired that about her.

Yukizome could talk her way through damn near anything. A volcano could be exploding during an earthquake while a tsunami swept in from the south and she'd have been busy calming panicked people to order with gentle words and a smile or, when that proved ineffective, tossing them over her shoulder and explaining in detail why it wasn't appropriate to scream and push during a crisis situation and pulling an apology from them even as she tossed them to safety.

That was just the kind of person she was.

She'd been… everything. To both of them and that's… that's why it had never bothered him much that Munakata loved her.

If he were a different person, he'd probably have loved her too.

No one she met was a stranger for long and for all that she had only ever had eyes for Munakata and only had a very few close friends, she was well-liked and regarded by everyone she met. She could talk to almost anyone about anything and somehow make them feel perfectly comfortable like they were old friends without ever truly letting them know her... he'd always been a little jealous of that talent.

He'd always been crap at talking to people. And even more crap at making anyone comfortable in his presence.

It wasn't that he didn't like them, not really, just… he never really knew what to say and everything he _did_ say always seemed to come out wrong. Too blunt or too abrupt and he knew he wasn't the friendliest looking guy so he scared off most folks before he even opened his mouth. Hell, he used to make girls break down in tears all the damn time when he was in school without ever meaning to.

In a boxing ring, he was swift and graceful and vicious and he always knew what to do, what moves to make. It always seemed to come as naturally as breathing, but outside a ring? Things weren't ever so simple.

The only thing that had ever come easy for him outside the ring was his, their, friendship.

He'd never really understood how Yukizome and Munakata managed it so effortlessly. Getting along with people.

The way Munakata gathered people to him like butterflies to a flower.

The way Yukizome put them all totally at ease.

They were a perfect team. A team they'd always insisted he was on and that he'd always wanted so desperately to be a part of, but one he'd never really felt like he added much of anything to.

Kizakura had been right about that at least; he was good for punching things and that was pretty much it.

And now… now he wasn't even really good for that.

He'd lost his hand and Yukizome had lost her life and Munakata had lost his position and an eye.

And everything they'd once been had shattered to pieces around them.

And now, three times a week, Munakata insisted on ferrying him to the clinic and back again.

Three times a week, Munakata showed up at his door and walked with him to the car and they spent twenty uncomfortable minutes breathing recycled air while the silence between them that had once sung with cheerful words screamed with the lack.

It was a short drive to the clinic, but it always felt like it took _years_.

Hell, every moment with him felt surreal and undeserved and heavy and yet he still couldn't imagine ever giving up even one second of it voluntarily.

Munakata drove with his hands placed precisely at ten and two, scanning back and forth constantly, regular as a pendulum clock. If he ever noticed uncomfortable, stifling quality of the silence, he never gave any sign that he could see or interpret. He just looked like he usually did, as calm and placid and still as lake water.

He shifted smoothly between gears as he eased off the highway onto the city streets that would lead them to their final destination.

"You can go if you want," he offered, voice gruff with disuse even though it had only been twenty minutes or so since he'd last spoke. Munakata shifted the car into park and killed the engine, still not looking at him.

He always parked in the same spot, just to the left side of the clinic, facing a short brick wall with a weird little piece of graffiti on it that looked like an ass to him but was probably a stylized 'm' or something.

"I can make my own way home from here," he continued, more to fill the silence than with any real expectation that Munakata would take him up on the offer.

"No, I'll stay and bring you back home." Munakata replied evenly, hands still resting on the wheel, eyes still trained forward. He said the words in the same pleasant, even tones he seemed to use to say everything these days.

It was the same voice he'd always used when he was uncomfortable, when he was meeting with important people he hoped to sway to his cause or strangers he needed to glad hand. He'd even heard him use it with his parents the few times he'd been by Munakata's house when they were kids.

The president's voice, she'd called it.

Of course, this wasn't the first time he'd had it directed at him.

He had this real clear memory of the first moment he'd realized he was probably in love with his best friend and it was always tainted with the memory of the president's voice.

It hadn't been some big realization, nothing earthshaking. Hell, afterward he hadn't even really felt all that different. It wasn't like he blushed more or he was more sensitive to his presence or his touch or anything like that, it was just... this moment when he'd finally had a name to call what he'd been feeling for months, years.

It'd been the summer before their senior year and he'd been invited to spend the day with them and it had been decided by Munakata, who never seemed to realize he was dictating terms so much as informing you of the most sensible and obvious option, that he would stay the night since his house was on the other side of town and it would be late by the time they got home from the movie theater. Yukizome had pouted fiercely about the idea of him sleeping in Munakata's room, but she'd forgotten about her annoyance when Munakata had agreed they would see whatever movie she wanted to see.

Or at least he thought she had until she actually picked the damn movie.

And, of course, it just _had_ to be some creepy freaking horror movie about some girl with long ass hair and Yukizome had grinned like a goon, tipping back and forth up onto her toes as he'd scowled at her while Munakata was off buying the tickets. She damn well knew he didn't like that shit even if Munakata was completely oblivious.

"You picked that on purpose," he grumbled and her smile widened, tilting towards wicked.

"Of course, I did. This is your payment for getting to spend the night with him," she replied easily and he'd scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Like it's my fault you can't stay over."

"And yet I'm still going to blame you," she replied, her smile dazzling as she looped an arm through his and leaned her head against him.

"And just for that, I'm not going to tell you what color his pajamas are," he replied, allowing her to drag him forward to meet Munakata at the doors to the theater.

And so he'd sat through the damn movie, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to disguise every time he flinched and jumped, but eventually Munakata's hand had settled against his bare arm, warm and a little sweaty. He'd jumped, startled and Munakata had given him this apologetic smile that said as clearly as the unasked for touch that he'd seen through him completely. It had been embarrassing as hell, but it had been hard to care about that too much when Munakata's hand stayed just there, a nerve wreaking unfamiliar pressure, for the rest of the film.

Afterwards he'd realized he had no damn idea what had happened during the back half of the movie, he hadn't even had the presence of mind to be freaked out about it. There could have been a whole chorus line of freaky long haired girls crawling around on the screen and he'd have never known the difference because all he'd been able to focus on was that light touch against his arm.

They'd walked Yukizome home afterwards, leaving her at her gate as the streetlamps overhead flickered to life and the darkness of the warm summer night began to settle around them as they turned their feet in the direction of Munakata's house.

"You should have told me you didn't like those sorts of films," he'd commented after they'd walked a few blocks.

"It wasn't a big deal," he grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets just for something to do to keep them still. "Yukizome really likes that kind of stuff."

"Sakakura, you are my best friend, I want you to be comfortable enough to be honest with me about the things that embarrass you."

He snorted a laugh, kicking a rock from their path and sending it skittering down the road to clatter off the curb and into the street. "Like you're one to talk, huh? It's not like you're in a hurry to tell me shit like that either."

"I don't like them," Munakata murmured after a moment's consideration, his voice so soft that the breeze almost carried the sound away.

"What?"

Munakata closed his eyes, his face relaxing into a little resigned smile before he turned to meet his gaze with a helpless shrug. "It's silly, isn't it? But I never have. I'll probably have nightmares about that movie for days. I was actually quite grateful to you for giving me something else to focus on."

He leaned in just close enough to bump their shoulders together, just close enough that their hands brushed and then he was retreating back into his own space, still smiling that little self-deprecating smile, "Don't tell Yukizome. I'm sure she'd make fun of me for it."

And just like that, he knew.

He was in love with Munakata Kyosuke.

He wasn't sure when it had happened exactly, he wasn't sure why, but just like that he was absolutely certain that he would never love anyone the way he loved him.

The walk had been long since Munakata had insisted that it was such a nice night that it would have seemed a shame to miss it. So they'd walked the entire way back instead of taking a bus or a train and it had been... nice. They hadn't really talked about anything else, but even if they had he wasn't sure he'd have remembered it. All he really remembered about that long walk was the way his chest had felt desperately tight and the way their arms would brush sometimes when they turned a corner or slid closer together to keep from being separated whenever they encountered a crowd.

When they'd finally arrived back at Munakata's house it had been past midnight and the lights in the kitchen had still been on and suddenly everything had felt… strange, off. There had been a tension in the air, in the set of Munakata's shoulders as he toed off his shoes and turned to offer him a weird, stiff smile. "Ah, would you mind heading upstairs before me? I'll be up shortly, I just need to get something from the kitchen."

Yukizome used to call it his president's voice. Never to his face, but she'd use the phase when she talked about him sometimes.

"Oh, he said it in his president's voice," she'd say with a grin and it had been like their own private joke. Not a mean one, not really, because they both adored that about him. That he had a voice he used for pretty much everybody else and then a different, private, special voice that he used just for them. How they always talked about that other voice, that special voice, as his real voice and how that tone always seemed to have the trace of a lingering smile in it, like sunlight cutting through a cloudy day.

He knew it made him feel special.

He was sure it made Yukizome feel the same way.

He hadn't understood why the fuck he was suddenly getting the president's voice at that moment, but it had hurt. It had hurt and it had made his fists clench instinctively at his sides.

"Nah, I think I need a glass of water," he'd replied, without a thought and the way Munakata's eyes widened with something that edged way too close to panic hit him like a punch in the gut.

"No!" He'd hissed and suddenly Munakata's hand had clenched around his fist, leaving an impression of sweaty desperation against his skin. "Sakakura, I-" He swallowed visibly, and then he could see him reigning his emotions in, bringing his features under control and slipping that brief flurry of panic back beneath the guise of that distant, pleasant stranger's smile that always accompanied the president's voice. "Please allow me to be a good host. My room is at the top of the stairs, second door on the left. I'll be up in a moment with your water."

He'd never wanted to hurt someone before.

He'd fought dozens, hundreds, of people in his life. Broken bones and shattered dreams and left bruises and scraps littered across hundreds of bodies, but he'd never, _never_ wanted to take it any further than that. Never wanted to take it outside the ring. Never got any satisfaction out of it other than the satisfaction of a job well done, a task completed, of knowing he was the best at something when he wasn't any good at much of anything else.

But in that moment he wanted to use his fists to pound whoever or whatever was waiting for Munakata in that damn kitchen into a smear against the pristine walls of his home.

"Sakakura?"

There was a note of concern, maybe confusion, in Munakata's voice and it summoned him back to the present, back from pointless musings on a past he couldn't change and into a present that made him feel vaguely sick because now he was the one putting that look on Munakata's face. He was once more back on the receiving end of the president's voice and it wasn't funny anymore.

It hadn't been funny in years though he'd never had the heart to tell Yukizome that, because she would have wanted to know why.

And if he'd told her why... she probably would have had the balls to really do something about it... even if it meant losing Munakata forever.

Or maybe not.

Maybe they'd both loved him too much and not enough.

Munakata had turned to look at him, his expression strangely blank, and he realized with something like panic that they were off-script for the first time in weeks. That Munakata was looking at him, really looking at him, for the first time in what felt like months.

This was his chance.

He could just… he could… what?

What could he say?

What could he do that would make any of this better?

What could he say that would undo any of the damage he'd done?

And so he did what he always did now.

He hid behind the comfort of habit, fell back into his role and ran from the possibility of messing everything up even more than he already had.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, do what you want," he managed, voice rough on emotion the way it always was as he shoved the door open.

It was always a little awkward doing it with just his right hand to work with, especially in Munakata's tiny fuel-efficient, fucking roller skate of a car. Always tough to escape from the seat, like it was specifically engineered to trap him inside. It wasn't something he could practice so he always seemed to lose the knack in the long hours between trips so it always took him a couple tries to manage it. By the time he managed to remember to free himself from the belt, shove the door open wide enough and tip his body up out of the bucket seat, he could practically feel Munakata's hand hovering in the air behind him, barely restraining the urge to just reach over and help or, worse, come around and get him up out of the car himself.

His face always felt like he could've fried an egg on it by the time he'd managed to actually get out of the car and today was no exception as he finally grunted and shoved and half-fell out of the damn car, jarring his damn arm in the process and scrambling to his feet as fire leapt up his nerves. He kicked the door shut behind him with more force than was strictly necessary and plodded off towards the clinic with his shoulders hunched.

He might not have been moving very fast by the time he yanked the clinic door open, but you didn't have to move fast to run away.

Yeah, he was getting pretty good at doing that at least.

Maybe that could be his new talent now that his boxing days were behind him.

The session itself was unremarkable as it ever was.

Sit on the table.

Answer too many invasive damn questions from someone who nodded along with everything he said, wanted to know and document every ache and pain, like any of it made a damn bit of difference to his reality. Everything freaking hurt and he was still missing a damn hand.

Heat application, nerve stimulation, exercises and more exercises.

It all passed in a blur that left him sore and aching in ways his workouts never had and all too soon the hour passed and it was over.

He always stands in the lobby afterwards, leaning up against the windows catching his breath, letting some of the strain and irritation leak from his body as he lets himself have a few minutes to just… look at him. He can't really see him from that vantage point, not really. At best he can see some of the back of his head, pale hair just barely visible past the headrests and the glare of sunlight off the rear window glass, but it's _enough_.

Enough to settle his heart because he always worries in that moment he steps out of the office into the lobby whether Munakata will have thought better of it and left him behind. He knows he never would, of course, once Munakata gives his word on something it might as well be set in stone, but… that was _before_.

Now… now there's always this inescapable twinge of doubt, because this Munakata is different, almost a stranger.

He doesn't talk the same, doesn't even move the same.

Everything about him feels different as if everything that happened stole away a piece of him that he can never recover and he's forever trying to compensate for something far more vital than the eye he lost in that dark place beneath the sea.

And maybe it had.

Yukizome had been important to them both, but she'd always been vital to Munakata in a way she hadn't been to him. He missed her, but… her loss wasn't the same for him as it was for Munakata. He was sure of that.

In his darkest moments, he wonders if Munakata would have mourned this way for him… even though he already knows the answer.

In some ways leaving the office, getting back in that car for the drive home is a thousand times more difficult than answering the door and enduring the ride in ever was.

Every time it felt like it would be the last time.

Like maybe next time, Munakata will call to say that something came up and he can't make it and he'll tell him not to worry about it. That he can make his own way.

And maybe he won't intend for it to be anything more than once, but maybe the next week or the week after that it'll be twice. And a few weeks after that, he won't be able to come at all and then maybe… maybe he'll stop calling altogether. Maybe he'll tell himself that he just got busy that he had just finally decided to get on with his life. That he'd just gone back to doing the business of the Future Foundation, a little sadder, a little more serious than he'd been before, but just as efficient, just as capable.

And eventually he'd stop listening for a call that never came and he'd get on with his own life, whatever was left of it without Munakata in it.

And maybe that would be easier than going through the motions like this.

So, for the first time, he allows himself to imagine what it might be like.

Maybe he'd manage to find something to do, to fill the hours between therapy and sleep. Maybe he'd coach boxing down at the fucking local or something. Something that would be just satisfying enough that he wouldn't hate doing it, since it wasn't like he had to worry about money or anything. His savings and the pension the Foundation gave him would be enough that he wouldn't ever have to do shit if he didn't want to, but he'd need something to fill the time. To keep his mind off things. And, maybe it'd take awhile, but he'd eventually figure out the only having one hand thing on his own and he'd manage to get around well enough without ever having to figure out a prosthetic that would just serve as a constant physical reminder of what he'd lost. Better not to have one at all, probably.

And maybe he wouldn't be happy, maybe there would always be a hole in his life, a void no one and nothing could ever fill, but maybe he'd learn to move around it. Eventually, at some point years from now maybe, he'd stop tripping over it or bumping against it and he'd figure out a way to breathe without the familiar ache of everything he'd lost. He'd just some day learn to live with the lack just as he'd learned to live without the hand.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

He'd at least be able to lie to himself, to tell himself that Munakata had moved on with his own life. That he was happy, that he'd found someone who loved him. Someone who is always honest with him and won't ever be corrupted by despair.

Someone _useful_.

And he might even be able to pretend that the very idea doesn't eat him up inside.

He could lie to himself and imagine that Munakata would find someone he could trust. Someone who would look after him and make sure he remembers to eat and sleep and do all that shit that he obviously _isn't_ doing right now.

He's not _blind_.

He's not stupid.

He's just been trying not to _think_ about it.

But he can see that his clothes hang looser than they should and his belt is cinched tighter than it's ever been before and he damn well knows that those dark circles beneath his eyes are heavier every damn time he shows up at his door.

 _Dammit._

Who is he freaking kidding?

He's not that damn good a liar and he knows Munakata too well to fool himself like that.

He won't take care of himself.

He won't trust anyone else to do it for him.

Not again.

He'll just waste away to nothing.

And no one will be there to stop him.

He stared out at the back of his pale head for a moment.

Two.

Three.

He didn't move, didn't so much as twitch. His hands were still resting on the damn steering wheel. Still at ten and two.

Every time he leaned against the wall and looked at him he could always tell from the tense set of his shoulders that he hadn't moved while he was in there, as if his exit from the car had frozen him in amber and it was only his return that would shatter the casing and allow him to breathe again.

Sometimes he wondered what Munakata did between appointments and he knew deep down that it was probably the same damn thing he did which was reach for a distraction that wouldn't actually distract and count the minutes.

They were both so damn _stupid_.

She was probably so pissed at them.

He opened the car door, kicking it wider and throwing himself inside. He didn't bother to bring his right leg in and close it though. If he did he'd never do this. He'd just let things go on as they had and another week would go by and another and Munakata would wear himself down to nothing and he'd do the same and nothing would change.

So, instead he left himself an escape route open and leaned back against the headrest, turning his head to offer Munakata's startled expression a weak smile, "You need to a eat a damn sandwich or something. Let's go grab some lunch before we head back."

He's not sure what response he's expecting, but it isn't the one he gets.

A wry smile and a chuckle and then he's shaking his head and reaching out to turn the key in the ignition, his voice soft as he replies: "Like you're one to talk. You're lucky I know a decent place nearby or you might waste away to nothing by the time we arrived. Get in, buckle your seatbelt and shut the door already, you're letting all the cool air out."

He grinned and did as he was told.

They didn't talk on the way to the restaurant, but it still felt like they'd taken a first step towards something. He wasn't sure it would be better than what they had now and he knew it almost certainly wouldn't be better than what they'd had then, but it was _something_.

And that something made him feel a little hopeful for the first time in years.

 **NOTES:**

You can find the next story in this series on my stories page, if you're interested. It's called 'The Match'. Thanks!


	2. Next Story in the Series Update

The next story in this series is called 'The Match'. You can find it via my stories page. Should be right up top. (Just figured I should leave a note here for subscribers since my updating the notes on this story wouldn't actually notify them of the update.)


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